Cabbages and Kings
by Snape's Nightie
Summary: Everyone has a part to play when war breaks out. News of Dumbledore's death reaches Bulgaria the following morning. Takes place just after HBP. Short.


Everyone has a part to play when war breaks out. News of Dumbledore's death reaches Bulgaria the following morning. Takes place just after HBP.  
**  
**Even by my standards, this is a pointless, drabbly, dashed-out-in-a-hurry fic. Took about half an hour. Don't think I've ever written this character before, certainly not at such length. It appeared on my Livejournal a few weeks ago, so apologies if you've already read it.

Disclaimer: Title is Lewis Carroll, content is borrowed without permission from JK Rowling. I am making no profit from her creations.

Sweat dripped into Viktor's eyes as he brainlessly enacted his cool-down stretches, his lips counting to ten of their own accord each time he changed position. His left knee was still feeling fractionally weaker than normal after the collision at yesterday's training. He must remember to ask Petia to take a look before he flew again - they had all learned their lesson from last season when Stoyan ignored his groin strain and was out for six weeks before the potio-therapist had managed to undo the damage.

Finishing his workout, Viktor leaned against the wall and wiped his face with a towel, trying not to be nervous about the meeting with his agent later in the day. He had never been much good with words. In the air, there was no use being falsely modest, he was a king. On the ground, he was a rather clumsy, inarticulate twenty-year-old. Knowing that his personal fortune was equivalent to those of many of Bulgaria's leading industrialists, and that he was widely accepted as the greatest young Quidditch player on the planet somehow did nothing to stop him stammering when directly addressed in public.

A familiar soft tap on the door ended the pointless ponderings and he called out for his mother to enter. She was looking serious, with a copy of the Daily Dragon clutched tightly in her fist.  
"Are you finished your routine, my child?" she asked quietly. "Shall I begin your breakfast?"  
"Yes. Thank you, Mother."  
"Viktor."  
"Mmm?"  
She unfolded the paper, biting her bottom lip, and held it out to him.  
"We met him, when we went to Britain, for that terrible contest," she had that stricken look now, the one she always wore when discussing the Tri-wizard Tournament. Apparently, the English boy's death had been too near a miss for a mother to forget.

Viktor read the front page of the paper. Albus Dumbledore was dead.

"Oh," he said. Mrs Krum nodded and left the gym.

Exploiting the Bulgarian connection, the Dragon had printed a photograph of the four champions and their headteachers, all looking grave and dignified in their official poses. Out of the seven people in the photograph, taken only two and a half years ago, three of them were now dead. Igor's eyes bored into him from the page. No one really knew why he had died and there was talk of a government-level cover-up. Viktor knew that he could probably find out with a little investigation, but a kind of warning instinct told him that it was something to do with the English, that no good would come of being too inquisitive. He regretted his mentor's death, certainly, but not enough to follow him by pitting his sportsman's brain against those who won power by their ruthless cunning. Exactly who these 'others' were, he was not certain. The sight of the terror on the faces of grown adults in the wake of the Tri-wizard tragedy had been enough to warn him away.

He read the first few paragraphs of the article. Harry had witnessed the death this time, too. The murder had been committed by one of the teachers, the dark one, Karkaroff's friend. Or his enemy. It had been difficult to tell which. Britain, the paper claimed, was in complete turmoil now as the old man had been the number one opponent to the evil wizard Voldemort, who was once again on the rampage.

Was any of this his business? What those odd people on their arrogant little island did to each other ought not to concern him, miles away in reality as well as mentality. But he had been there. He had lived among them and though there had been the usual teenage tensions, the Hogwarts lot had just been ordinary boys and girls.

He should write to Hermione.

Her friend Harry was obviously up to his neck in trouble, though from her letters, Viktor had deduced that this was the normal state of affairs. She was usually in danger by association too. Yes, he must definitely write.

If the situation was as bad as all that, they might need to flee the country to escape this Voldemort. Though running away was not the usual style of the three daring youngsters, perhaps an ally in Bulgaria would be useful. He must explain very carefully to Hermione that he wasn't suggesting she was a coward, only that sometimes, when a game was going badly one needed to break away and observe the chaos for a safe distance, before reapplying oneself to the fray in the most useful position. Harry and the red-headed boy would understand the Quidditch strategy, and the brilliant witch would appreciate the offer. He hoped.

He was still so fond of Hermione, though he knew that they were not really suited. A few stunning groupies had turned his head since the ill-fated trip to Scotland, but Viktor usually laughed himself silly afterwards at their complete failure to live up to the less obvious charms of his lady across the water. A man could do a lot worse than to count such a person as his friend.

He grimaced at the thought of the hours he must spend labouring over his English grammar in order to write the letter, but it would be completely wrong to write in Bulgarian and employ a translator, now that he could afford it, especially as she had said last Christmas that his sentence structure was vastly improved.

His mother called from the kitchen about how he wanted his eggs and he expressed no preference.

What would she think if he offered Harry Potter sanctuary in their home? _His_ home rather, as the new house in Sofia – much finer than the isolated farm where he had been born - had come out of his own wages; though his parents still ran it and the rest of his life on his behalf. Danger followed Potter like thunder followed lightning. Could Viktor risk drawing Voldemort and his murderous servants to his family's doorstep?

His grandmother used to tell tear-jerking tales of Grindelwald's treatment of their people last time pure evil had swept across Europe. Disappearances, atrocities, wand to wand combat and bodies in the street had been everyday occurrences. If he could possibly help his Hogwarts friends to destroy their enemy before history repeated itself, then it was worth the risk. Dumbledore had made a speech about the importance of sticking together in the 'dark and difficult times ahead'. Igor had not stuck with anyone. He had fled alone and been killed.

A Quidditch team only succeeded when each individual gave his best. It was a known fact that a win resulted not only from the efforts of the fliers, but also the coach, manager, healers, groundskeepers, nutritionists, broom-tuners and all the other satellite roles. Viktor knew that in this particular game he was a very minor player indeed, but that was no reason not to do everything within his power to help.

As he sat down to eat his breakfast, he pulled out a quill and began making preliminary notes for his letter as he ate. Mrs Krum hovered over him, but said nothing until he summoned the Bulgarian-English dictionary.

"Viktor?" she stared at him with fear in her eyes.

"I am just writing a letter," he told her, taking a long drink of juice.

"In English? To that girl?" She still had not learned how to pronounce the Shakespearean name, but she had a tone of voice only used in conjunction with Hermione.

"Yes."

"Oh, my child, be careful," she pleaded. "People are dying!"

"That is why I am writing the letter," he answered patiently, trying to decide whether one offered a proposal 'at' someone or 'to' them.

"I don't understand," she shook her head in bewilderment.

"Ask grandmother," he replied.

If Britain was in such a dreadful state as the newspaper claimed, she might not even reply; but he will have done his duty, small though it was.


End file.
